by Rachel Marks
Mimi leads me to the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’
‘That’d be great, thanks.’
She gets a mug out of the cupboard and switches the kettle on. ‘So how was the rest of the wedding?’
‘It was nice. The boys and I ate so many chocolate-covered marshmallows we were nearly sick.’
‘Had to be done. And Kate looked amazing.’
‘She did. So did you.’
‘I wasn’t fishing for compliments.’
‘I know you weren’t. I just wanted you to know.’
Mimi’s eyes drop to the floor and, when she looks up, it’s like she’s put on a mask. ‘So what is it you wanted to speak to me about?’
I lay awake all last night thinking about how I’d hurt her and how crap that made me feel. How sad I’d be to lose her. So I know I have to try and make her understand.
‘Look, maybe I did kiss you last night to make Kate jealous and I’m sorry about that. That was really shitty of me. But for you to think I’ve just been using you, that you don’t mean anything to me …’
‘Noah, it’s fine. You don’t need to explain.’
‘But I want to explain. You know you said you’re not the type of woman men would change their whole life for, well, that’s not true. You’re exactly that type of woman. And I’m so sorry that I made you feel that way.’
Mimi shakes her head. ‘I was being silly. I shouldn’t have stormed off. I was just tired. Maybe I was going down with something.’ She laughs self-consciously.
‘You weren’t being silly. I never should’ve made you feel like a pawn in a game. You’ve become my best friend, Mimi. And you were right, I didn’t really have any proper friends before you. I did need you. I still need you, in fact.’
Mimi looks like she’s about to soften but at the same time there’s a sadness in her eyes, a reservation.
‘Will you forgive me?’ I ask, eyes wide.
Mimi hands me the coffee she’s made me and I take it, nervously awaiting her answer.
‘If I must.’
A glimmer of a smile crosses her lips and I put my coffee on the side and embrace her in a hug. ‘Thank you.’
After a few seconds, she shrugs me off and starts busying herself with tidying away stuff in the kitchen. ‘So what are your plans for the rest of the day, anyway?’
I take a sip of my coffee. ‘The boys have made me promise to take them camping next weekend so I need to go and buy some stuff. They’ve been going on and on about it and the weather looks great so I’ve finally given in.’
Mimi clears the last of the things off the draining board. ‘Oh, I love camping. Haven’t been for years. I keep trying to persuade Dad but he says he’s not sure he’d be able to get back up off the air mattress these days.’
‘You should come.’
‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean that.’
‘I know you didn’t, but you should. The boys would love to see you and I’ve not put a tent up for years. I could do with the help.’
Mimi takes her phone out of her pocket and studies it, as if it might have the answer to what she should do. ‘I’m just not sure … I …’
‘I’ll bring you all the snacks you want. And wine. And even buy you an ice cream with a Flake. Come on, you can’t say fairer than that.’
Mimi smiles, and it feels like I’ve got my old Mimi back, before things started to feel so complicated. ‘Oh, go on then. Dad’s away on a fishing weekend anyway and I hate being in the house on my own.’
‘I’m glad a weekend going to the beach with me just about beats sitting at home eating microwave meals for one.’
‘It’s a close call.’
‘Pick you up about nine Saturday morning?’
‘OK. I’ll dig out my camping stuff.’
*
‘I’m going to take Harley for his thrive session today, Mrs Watson. The rest of the children are doing free play so if you can just prevent them from killing each other, that’d be great.’
Mrs Watson rolls her eyes and I stifle a smile as I lead Harley to the nurture room for his thrive session. I mean, seriously, the semantics in schools are just brilliant. It’s basically just some one-to-one time where we talk to him about his emotions in the hope he’ll then learn how to control them. I’m not sure I really buy into all the supposed success stories, but it’s good to get some time with him on his own to check how he’s doing.
I look through Harley’s thrive book at the activities he’s done with Mrs Watson. My favourite is where he’s drawn an incident that happened in the playground and then underneath drawn what would have been a better way to deal with it. What makes me laugh is his depiction – he’s drawn himself punching another child and then blood squirting out of the child’s face in every direction, like there’s been some kind of massacre.
I look at the plan for today’s session. Paint pieces of paper different colours to show different emotions and talk about when child has them.
‘So, today we are going to do some painting.’
‘Cool, can I paint Spiderman?’
‘Well, no, we are going to paint the paper certain colours to try to show your different feelings.’
‘Oh.’
I love how he doesn’t even try to hide his disappointment. There’s something to be said for the tactless honesty of little ones.
‘So you’re obviously feeling disappointed. What colour could we use for disappointed?’
‘Grey?’
‘Perfect. Great choice. Grey is exactly how disappointed feels.’
And then I suddenly realize that I am cheering when he is telling me he is feeling grey. Not even dynamic angry red, or sad blue, but grey. I squeeze some black and white paint into a palette and hand Harley a brush. He swishes the paint together and then starts covering the paper.
‘Can I paint something grey like an elephant?’
‘No, you just have to fill the paper with grey.’
Harley sighs and then continues painting, the blank grey page in front of us guilt-trippingly juxtaposed with the word ‘thrive’ written in capitals on the front of Harley’s book. I look out of the window, and just outside, in the little garden the school uses to tick the box of involving the children with nature, I notice the overgrown vegetable patch, full to the brim with dandelions.
‘Hold on one second, Harley. I’ll be back.’
I rush to the science cupboard and sure enough, in the deepest, darkest corner, there’s a plastic container with a load of seed packets in it. I pick out some radishes, carrots and onions and take them back through to Harley, who has started to paint his hands.
‘Fancy going and doing some planting?’
‘What about the painting?’
‘It’s a bit boring, isn’t it?’
Harley looks stunned, like he can’t believe a teacher is admitting to imperfection, and then he nods, a little anxiously, as if he’s worried he still might get told off if he says he’s bored out of his brain.
‘Come on, let’s go and get some fresh air.’
I lead Harley out into the little garden, find a trowel and a small fork stuck into the ground outside and hand the trowel to Harley. He begins digging straight away, jabbing at the soil and yanking out the weeds.
‘Good job, Harley. You’ve obviously done this before.’
Harley shakes his head. ‘We only have stones in our garden.’
‘Well, you’re very good at it. Just make sure you dig all the way down so you get the roots out too. Then the weeds won’t grow back.’
Once we’ve cleared the patch, I show Harley how to make holes in a row a few centimetres apart then show him the packets of seeds.
‘Which one are we doing first?’
He points at the radishes. ‘Like Peter Rabbit.’
‘Oh yes, he likes radishes, doesn’t he? Right, just gently tip a few seeds into each hole.’
I rip the top off the packet and hand it to Harley. Of course, he’s too heavy-handed and pours a ton of seeds into th
e first hole then looks up at me, and the fear in his eyes hits me right in the chest.
‘I’m sorry. They just came out too fast.’
I ruffle his hair, immediately transported back to all the times I felt that fear. Like when I put too much coffee in when making Mum a drink and she screwed up her face and spat it out all over the table, or when I got a bit of shell in the cake mixture when I cracked the eggs and she threw the whole lot in the bin, or when I’d accidentally knock a cup over when we were having dinner and she’d scream the place down like there’d been a murder.
‘It was an accident, Harley. It’s fine. These things happen. Just use your fingers to pick some up and put them in the other holes.’
‘Oh, OK.’ Then he does just that, brushing the remaining seeds off his fingers with his other hand. ‘Shall I make another row of holes now? Then we can put carrots in. I reckon Peter Rabbit would like those too.’
‘Perfect. You’re doing a super job.’
On hearing this compliment, Harley’s face brightens from his smile all the way up to his eyes. Planting these seeds, he has not once argued with me, or got angry, or thrown anything. His body has been still, his features relaxed and content. He’s just a kid – he doesn’t want to be lashing out, getting in trouble all the time, constantly being told he’s making the ‘wrong’ choice. He’s just handling things in the only way he knows how. And watching him, I realize that while the whole self-improvement plan may have failed in its primary objective, I still want to be better. As a dad. As a teacher. As a friend. And I’m more determined than ever to get things right for Harley.
*
I strap Harley into Finn’s car seat. Emma texted me to ask if I could bring him home because she wasn’t well and everyone she’d asked was unavailable. Despite my initial concern about giving her my number, this is the first time she’s been in contact so I agreed to help her out. I’m not sure what the general opinion would be of me giving Harley a lift home, so I slyly smuggled him out of school via the back gate and threw him into the back of the car. Once he’s securely strapped in, I jump in the front seat and drive out.
‘Can you take me home every day, Mr Carlton?’
‘No, buddy, it’s just a one-off today because Mummy isn’t feeling very well.’
‘But she doesn’t feel well lots of days so you could take me all those days?’
I’m touched by his logic. ‘The thing is, Harley, I’m supposed to stay after school to do boring work. I’m sneaking out today. Shh.’
I hold my fingers to my lips and Harley smiles, happy to be complicit in my disobedience.
‘Well, can you stay for a little bit and play with me?’
It seems such a basic right – an adult who wants to play with you. But I remember a lot of times when Mum would wave me off and send me away. That feeling of rejection, of being a nuisance. I wonder if my boys have felt it too – when I’ve been preoccupied, too self-involved to engage. I don’t want them to feel that any more.
‘I’ll see if it’s OK with Mummy, OK?’
I’m conscious that I’m Harley’s teacher and that it’s not exactly normal to be going to his house and playing with him, but at the same time I don’t want Harley to feel alone, like I’m just another adult that doesn’t really care.
‘Yey, thank you so much, Mr Carlton.’
When we get to the flat, Harley smashes the door with his fist multiple times until eventually Emma appears. Her T-shirt is covered in stains and she looks like she’s not seen the light of day for weeks.
‘Oh, thank you so much for bringing him home. I’m feeling terrible.’ She runs her hand through her hair, which is greasy and tangled, while Harley scuttles in under her arm and rushes up the stairs.
‘It’s OK. I hope you feel better soon.’
‘Thanks.’
Harley reappears at the top of the stairs, his eyebrows knitted. ‘You said you’d stay and play for a bit?’
I look back at Emma. ‘He wondered if I could play for half an hour. If you’re feeling rubbish and need a hand?’
‘Please, Mummy.’
At first, Emma looks like she’s trying hard to hide her relief at the suggestion of help, but then her façade appears to falter. ‘Would you mind? If I could just have an extra half-hour lying down, that would be such a help. As long as I’m not keeping you from something important.’
‘Yey.’ Clearly seeing it as a done deal, Harley skips back to his bedroom.
‘Only planning your child’s education. Nothing important.’
Emma offers a half-smile, like when someone makes a joke when imparting bad news, and then opens the door wider and steps back, allowing me to go in.
‘Right, I’ll go and see what he’s up to. You get some rest.’
‘Thanks.’ Emma turns and shuffles along to the lounge, going in and closing the door.
When I reach Harley’s room, he’s sitting on his floor drawing a picture and, when he sees me, he covers it with both hands.
‘Don’t look.’
‘OK, I won’t. Do you want me to go back out of your room whilst you finish it?’
‘No, you can sit on my bed as long as you close your eyes.’
‘OK.’ I clamber over the mass of toys splayed out on the carpet until I reach his bed, where I sit down on his Marvel Avengers quilt cover.
‘Close your eyes then.’
‘OK, boss.’
Harley smiles and I close my eyes tight so he knows I’m not peeking.
‘Once I’ve finished my picture, can we go and play football? I’ve put two flowerpots for goals out the front.’
The space outside the flat is about a two-metre-square bit of concrete, but I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s not really suitable for football. And I guess sometimes you have to make the best of what you’ve got.
‘Sounds good.’
‘We’ll do penalty kicks. Five each.’
‘OK. I’m sure you’ll beat me, I’m not very good.’
‘I’m really good. I practise every day after school when Mummy is sleeping or making tea.’
‘Well, practice makes perfect.’
Suddenly a piece of paper is wafted in my face. ‘You can open your eyes now.’
I open my eyes and look at the picture he’s drawn. It’s of me and him (I know because he’s labelled us) and I can just about make out two flowerpots and a football.
‘It’s amazing, Harley. I love it.’
‘It’s you and me playing football.’
‘I know. I can see that. It’s so good I could tell that’s what it was straight away.’
A broad smile fills Harley’s face. ‘Shall we go outside and play now?’
‘Yes,’ I say, placing the picture on the bed.
Harley picks it up and hands it back to me. ‘No, you have to take it with you and put it on your fridge.’
‘I will, I promise. I’ll put it in my car as soon as we get outside. Thank you, Harley. It’s very kind of you.’
‘It’s because you’re my best friend. And Mummy sometimes, when she’s not being cross.’
It’s surprisingly touching, but again I worry that I’m getting too close. I mean, reception children tell you all the time that they love you, they invite you to their birthday parties, draw you pictures … but this feels different, like I’m filling the role of his absent father or something. And I’m definitely not the right person for the role. I’m barely doing a good enough job with my own kids.
‘Thank you, buddy. Does Mummy get cross a lot, then?’
‘She gets cross if I ask her too many things or when I spill my breakfast or make a mess.’
‘Well, it’s hard being a mummy, you know? Sometimes I’m grumpy with Gabe and Finn. Usually because I’m tired or busy.’
‘I don’t have a daddy any more,’ he says, very matter of fact. ‘He decided he didn’t want to see me and went away.’
Put in the simplistic language of a child, it feels like such a painful truth. I
think so often we want to dress it up as being ‘difficult’ or ‘complicated’, but Harley’s right. If his dad really wanted to see him, he’d move heaven and earth to do so.
‘Sometimes mummies and daddies fall out and they find it hard to see each other, but it’s not because of you, OK?’
Harley shrugs. ‘I hope they make up soon. Daddy used to play football with me, but Mummy always says she’s too tired and there isn’t space.’
I place my hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on. I think it’s about time you showed me these amazing skills of yours, don’t you think?’
I guide Harley out of his bedroom and follow him downstairs. As we reach the door, there’s no sign of Emma so I quietly open and close the door so as not to wake her. Harley puts me in goal first and I soon realize his view of his footballing ability is greatly inflated, so have to allow the only two shots out of five he gets on target to roll past my foot. When it’s my turn to shoot, it’s hard to ignore my competitive drive, but I force myself to kick the ball right at his feet and send a couple past the post, meaning I score zero to his two.
‘See, I told you I was the best.’
‘And you were right.’
‘Can we play again?’
I check my watch. It’s five o’ clock. ‘OK, one more go each then we’ll see if Mummy has sorted anything for your tea.’
I let him win again and then pick up the football. ‘Right, I bet you’re starving. Let’s go and see what there is to eat.’
When we get in the flat, Emma is still asleep, so I sneak into the kitchen and open the fridge. Randomly, it’s stacked full of Muller Rice but little else, so I open up the freezer and spot a packet of fish fingers.
‘Fish finger sandwich?’
‘I’ve never had one before.’
‘What? You’ve never had a fish finger sandwich? Well, you’ve got to try one then.’
‘But Mummy’s asleep and I don’t know how to make it.’
‘It’s OK. I’ll do it.’
I put a load of fish fingers under the grill, get two plates out and cover four pieces of bread with ketchup. After a while, Emma comes in, yawning.
